Fate
by Lafayette1777
Summary: But he is surprised again, a feeling he'll one day grow used to, when the sneakered guy stops at the door. "You coming?" Sneakers, divorce, an antique mirror and the genesis of House and Wilson. One-shot.


**Author's note: Just a one-shot about the genesis of the House/Wilson relationship. Enjoy and reviews are much appreciated!**

He grabs a name tag from the front table, slips it around his neck, and proceeds to take a seat in one of the folding chairs made to look fancier than their plastic frames suggest.

He's glad for the air conditioned conference center, after trying to work his way through the New Orleans heat and still look presentable for the convention. Why's he here? He's not sure. There are a thousand medical conventions like this, many closer to home than Louisiana. And yet he saw the chance to travel and practically jumped at it. He didn't delve into his reasons, just did what felt right. And here he is.

Sam had looked at him funny when he told he'd be gone for the weekend. And then she'd just nodded, and if he didn't know better he'd have thought she looked resigned.

He listens to a couple of lectures. One about neurosurgery, and another about depression in cancer patients. The oncology one particularly fascinates him, and he's ruminating on it when something catches his eye in the corner of the room. There's a man, about his age, in dress shirt and and slacks. He's got light blonde hair cut short, and he's waving furiously with a huge smile on his face.

James Wilson is pretty certain he's never seen this man in his life.

But he meets him halfway across the room anyway.

"James Wilson?! Is that you?" The man asks, his grin widening as Wilson smiles politely at him.

"Uh, yeah." Wilson does a quick three-sixty of the room. As if he wasn't already sure, the question is directed at him.

"We went to high school together, man! Don't your remember me?" He's holding a manilla envelope in one hand, waving it around as he talks eccentrically.

"Um...you're, uh-"

A pager goes off nearby. Wilson checks his own's pockets out of habit, but it's not his own, but his mysterious companion's.

"I should probably see what this is about." He shuffles around in his pants pockets. "Could you hold on to this for a second?"

He hands Wilson the thick manilla envelope before he can mutter "Sure."

He turns off the beeping pager, and without reading it, places it back in his pants. He seems to have deflated, when he meets Wilson's eyes again. The humor is lost, the excited smile vanished.

"James Evan Wilson?" He clarifies one more time.

Wilson nods.

"You've just been served."

Wilson just stares at him for a second, tongue tied. It's several beats before he finds his voice, and even then he's barely coherent. "Huh?"

"Your wife has filed for divorce." The man says grimly. "Her lawyer paid me to serve you those." He motions toward the envelope. "I'm sorry, sir."

Wilson looks distraughtly at the unopened package, mouth slightly open, brow furrowed.

The man just nods once, and then walks off into the crowd, presumably toward an exit. Wilson never sees him again.

He sits down heavily in the nearest seat, and sets to tearing open the papers. But something stops him before he can do any damage, and he just looks at it, lying on his lap.

Maybe if he doesn't open it, he can pretend like this never happened.

Maybe if he doesn't sign these, Sam will forgive him for whatever he's done. Maybe she'll still want to be married to him.

Son of a bitch, he just wants an _explanation._

He doesn't bother with the envelope again. To his right, there's a odd looking man sipping a drink and staring at him. _Probably wants to serve me, too._ Wilson thinks bitterly. Christ, hasn't he had enough attention from strangers for one day? The other man gets up and walks away. He can't be very old, but he carries many years of wisdom on his shoulders, Wilson thinks.

He carries the envelope under one arm and gets to his feet again. He attends one more seminar, and looks through a couple pamphlets laid out on folding tables. He sees the odd man in his peripheral vision everywhere he goes, it seems. The guy's shirt badly needs ironing, and he's wearing running shoes.

Eventually, Wilson gives up pretending to be in control and finds the nearest bar. As far as he can tell, the guys doesn't follow. He soon has three drinks inside him, and is walking the thin line between becoming more agitated and caring less and less.

What he's sure of, though, is that he's really fucking tired of Billy Joel assaulting his ears.

What is this, the seventh time? He turns around to see a guy in a golf shirt with balding gray hair manning the juke box, and replaying "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" every time it ended.

Wilson yells before the man can insert another coin and reselect the song. "What the hell? Give it a rest." He turns back to his...fifth (possibly) drink, enjoying the silence.

The song starts over again, and he groans loudly, letting out a few heinous swear words. He doesn't debate the relative merits of addressing the man again before he's turning back around. The man's smirk is pointed straight at him.

"Prick." Wilson mutters.

"I'm sorry, what?" The man retorts, anger sparking in his eyes.

"You fucking heard me." He replies. It's at this moment that something breaks through his alcohol hazed mind and tells him _whoa, you're seriously drunk. Back down before things go badly._

He ignores his own wisdom as the other man approaches, his intentions unclear. Is that fist raised to hit him? Wilson can't be sure, but his body reacts before his brain and he throws his half empty beer bottle at the man's head.

In retrospect, he's lucky that he aimed terribly, and the bottle goes sailing past the figure. Instead of landing harmlessly on the floor, though, it slams into a mirror across the room, causing both items to shatter.

The bartender just looks at the damage for a moment, before glaring at Wilson and calling the cops. Satisfied, the juke box man wanders back to his table.

"Oh, fuck." Wilson murmurs as his vision begins to spin, and he can feel himself slipping off the stool in the direction of the floor. The divorce papers flutter in his breast pocket, but stay in place. Lying on the tiled ground, he finally passes out.

m m m

When he awakes, sunlight is blinding him, and he's got probably the worst headache in all of history.

He's slumped on a wooden bench in a half dark room with three other guys—each looking about as fucked up as himself. The drunk tank. Great.

A cop is banging on the metal bars by his head. "You've been bailed out."

"Wha...?" He pushes himself into a proper sitting position, and is greeted by a wave of nausea and pain. He looks at the concrete floor, waiting for it to pass, when a pair of sneakers come into view.

He looks up at the strange man, who's staring down at him with indifference.

The cop unlocks the cell. Wilson stumbles to his feet, a surprised expression frozen on his face.

"I'm Greg House." His savior says. He does not offer a hand to shake, but simply turns and walks toward the police station exit. Wilson's having a hard time moving his feet, and is pretty sure the other man does not want to be followed anyway.

But he is surprised again, a feeling he'll one day grow used to, when the sneakered guy stops at the door. "You coming?"

Wilson meets his eyes, and then nods vigorously, picking his way over the sleeping bodies of his cellmates.

He follows House and doesn't look back.


End file.
